


Dear Derek, please don't miss me

by LadyIsabelleStark



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Military, Angst, Derek Feels, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derek Has Feelings, Derek Needs a Hug, Derek what were you thinking bro, F/F, Feels, Hurt Derek, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Magic, Major Character Injury, Major Character Undeath, Marine Corps, Military, Military Backstory, Military Stiles, Military Training, OTP Feels, Sad, Sad Derek, Sad and Beautiful, Sad is an understatement, Secret Identity, Secrets, Stiles Angst, Undead Stiles, Women in the Military, all of the feels, don't ever fuck with magic, sterek feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIsabelleStark/pseuds/LadyIsabelleStark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Are you Derek Hale?" The front one asks, staring at Derek with piercing gray eyes.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Derek answers yes, albeit hesitantly, and the two smaller men step forward. The largest one stops saluting as the other two bring forth a triangular object-a flag. Derek's just about to shoo them away, say this isn't for him, when the head guy speaks again. "Mr. Hale, on behalf of the United States Special Forces, we grant you our greatest condolences in the in-action death of Stiles Stilinski."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. an ordinary hero

**Author's Note:**

> I really, really hope you guys like this. This idea drove me nuts until i wrote it, and I just love it. 
> 
> Notes:  
> In this story..  
> • Derek, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, and Scott are wolves.  
> • Erica and Boyd live.  
> • the alpha pack is defeated.  
> • Allison and Lydia don't exist in Beacon Hills.  
> • all grammar and spelling mistakes in Stiles' journal are supposed to be there. It makes it more realistic, in my opinion.

-  
Derek is sliding on his favorite leather jacket and getting ready to go make low fat vanilla lattes for teenage white girls when something reminds him of Stiles. It's brief, but his breath hitches in his throat as his fingers brush over the movie stub in his pocket. His mind knows it's from Act of Valor, the first (and last) date they went on. It brings back memories ( _oh god, Stiles' face as he brings their faces closer together, finally_ ) he doesn't want to see, because Stiles is _gone_ and he's never coming back. They'd each gotten the same letter-himself, the Sheriff, Melissa, Scott, Isaac, Erica, Boyd-telling them that he was okay, he just needed to leave for a while, and he would keep in touch. It said he was studying software engineering in Michigan, and he was actually happy. There was even a picture of his dorm. 

That was a year ago. They never got a letter again. And so Derek pushed his feelings for Stiles down into the dark corners of his heart, and tried to forget. It didn't really work out too well for him. 

There is a sharp knock on the front door of the Hale house, and Derek's brow crinkles in confusion. He never has visitors anymore. 

He takes cautious steps toward the window, pulling back the curtain to see who it is. Parked out front of the house is a large black sports car with military plates. There's a man in uniform, barely visible through the tinted glass, who is in the drivers seat, but otherwise the car looks empty. 

What the hell? Are they coming to recruit him? Derek rolls his eyes in annoyance and rubs at his chin as he walks to the door and reluctantly pulls it open. Immediately, the _three Marines on his porch_ snap to attention, clicking their heels together and saluting with two fingers. 

"Are you Derek Hale?" The front one asks, staring at Derek with piercing gray eyes. 

Derek answers yes, albeit hesitantly, and the two smaller men step forward. The largest one stops saluting as the other two bring forth a triangular object-a flag. Derek's just about to shoo them away, say this isn't for him, when the head guy speaks again. "Mr. Hale, on behalf of the United States Special Forces, we grant you our greatest condolences in the in-action death of Stiles Stilinski." 

The world stops for a moment. Derek forgets to breathe, and blood rushes to his head. His heart is practically leaping out of his chest and it feels like he's choking, and he can't even move. 

"Stiles-no-" he says, and it's so quiet he can barely hear it. The Marines in the back look like babies-innocent kids-and suddenly, all he can see in their faces is Stiles looking back at him. They're handing him a flag and a cardboard box and then after a few more monotone, scripted words they're gone, moving in sync as they get back into the car without a second glance. Derek is almost positive one of the small ones had a tear glistening in his eye, even if he looked ferocious and menacing in his dress uniform. Even if he couldn't cry. Derek decides he likes that one. 

It starts to rain, and Derek doesn't know what to do. His brain keeps telling him that Stiles lives in Michigan, this is all a huge mistake, and the other half is reminding him about that stupid army movie they saw; and how he'd never seen Stiles afterward. 

He walks back inside, uncertain he can without falling or crying or doing something stupid, and slumps down against the door. The flag is clutched between his fingers and then pressed against his nose, and with his heightened senses he can smell sweat and fabric softener on it, a few hints of dirt. He tries to take slow breaths but all that happens is him gasping for air like a fish out of water. 

Swallowing hard, he looks at the worn box. It says 'FLORIDA ORANGES' on the side, and it's frayed from use, stained on some parts. It smells unfamiliar-like grit and dust and the smallest little bit of Stiles. He uses a claw to rip the masking tape off of it, peering inside. There's only one item in the box, a leather journal that's practically bursting at the seams. It's black, and taped on the front is a patch of the American flag and a scrap of paper that says Lt. Stilinski. It looks like the book has been to hell and back, honestly, with it's ripped cover and the layer of dust settling over it. There's duct tape barely holding the front cover in one piece, and Derek's almost positive that the binding is taped with bandages or that would be shredded too. 

His hands grasp the book so firmly his knuckles turn white, and he's practically panting as he stares at the cover. Before he can tell himself no, he pulls the string tying it together, and the book falls open to the first page. 

_September 1st, 2012._

_Dear Derek,  
Hey, man. If you're reading this, I'm either dead, or somebody's pulling a prank on me and they finally sent this thing to you. Well, I mean, assuming it's more full in the future. Today's only my first day, and this barely takes up a few lines. I really do want up write to you, you know. But this is as good as it gets, at least for now. _

_Man, I miss Beacon Hills. Seriously. Like, I'd do anything to be back in school right now. Even in Chem. That fucking class, man. I swear._

_Shit. I gotta go, workout time. I'm trying to get biceps like yours so I don't die out there._

_Peace,  
Stiles x _

_p.s. someday, Derek, I'll explain why I did this. But not today._

This sounds like a suicide letter, Derek realizes, and it is, because Stiles is dead. 

_Stiles. Stiles is dead._

The words pound into his skull over and over and over until he's biting down so hard on his tongue that the iron taste of blood fills his mouth. He traces over the lines of ink with delicate fingers, imagining scrawny Stiles in a military uniform, probably looking like the real life version of Captain America. 

Oh. _Oh._  
Now he gets it, how could he have been so stupid? 

He tears through the book, little bits of paper (wrappers from food in Iraq, pieces of dicarded maps in Chinese, even a few mission plans with 'CLASSIFIED' stamped in red are shoved in the pages) falling all over the floor in his haste. 

_November 12th, 2012._

_Dear Derek,_  
It's the last week of basic training, and Allison and I (remember her? It's been a while since i wrote about her, but she's fucking amazing and the best shot I've ever seen.) pulled the bessst prank yesterday. Like for real, it reminded me of something Scott and I would do, and Argent actually smiled. Go me.  
This is what Allison looks like, see? I'm a master at sketching, no need to tell me. I already know. 

_No, but really. She's kind of short, and pale, but she's got these weird haunting brown eyes and long (well, it was long) curly brown hair. Now it's chopped short so it fits under her helmet (helmets are awful, js) but in the pics she showed me, she used to be like Rapunzel._

_God, do your superwerewolf muscles ever hurt from all those push-ups you do? I've been working out daily for months and my entire fucking body feels like it's been ran over by the Jeep._

_OHH!! THE JEEP!_

_Derek Hale, I solemnly swear that if my jeep is rusty or damaged by the time i come home, I will murder you with my new skills. Okay? Alright._

_I should probably sleep now. Even if my bed is very, very uncomfortable. And even if Greenberg snores._

_Oh hey, you know that one plaid blanket you keep on your couch? The one you mopped up my blood with after the alpha attack? It's strange, but.. I miss that right now. It reminds me of you._

_Good night, Derek._

_Stiles x_

Of course Derek knows that fucking blanket, he hasn't touched it in the last six months because it's one of the last things he has that smells like Stiles. He's tempted-so tempted-to get up and grab that blanket, smother himself in that comfort, but that would hurt too bad. Especially because every word he reads brings him one step closer to tears. 

_January 1st, 2013._

_Happy New Year, Derek. I hope your holiday was good and you got thoroughly drunk and kissed Scott (or was it me? hmm) under the clock again this year._

_It's not snowy or cold here, which feels awkward. I want snow and sledding and i want to wear beanies and chill on the couch, but no. I have sand everywhere-yes, I do mean everywhere-in my boots, in my hair, I bet some of it even gets stuck in this damn book. God knows i write in it enough. I'm lucky our battalion leader doesn't take it from me. I don't know what I'd do without it._

_I miss you guys so bad i don't even know what to do with myself anymore. Signing up maybe wasn't such a good idea after all, it's not like the video games we all played. It's actually kind of boring, god forbid we get bombed tomorrow or something. But still. I'd rather be home._

_Sandy but still dandy,_

_Stiles x_

Derek doesn't want to imagine Stiles in a base somewhere in the desert, sweating his ass off and fighting for something he doesn't even believe in (well, he does, but he doesn't) but he does anyway, because he was there because of him. 

_"Stiles," Derek said with a sigh, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and tapping on the windowsill with another._

_"No, but seriously, man! Did you see that? Those dudes were so badass it hurts," Stiles said so excitedly it actually kind of hurt him a bit. "I want skills like that. Or skills like your werewolfy voodoo shit."_

_"You have skills," Derek offered lamely, scratching at the back of his neck. "Nobody knows Wikipedia quite like you, Stiles."_

_The teenagers eyes were far away as he stared out the window that night, and-_

Derek shakes himself out of the flashback, allowing the flag to drop out of his sweaty hand and down to the floor-but he catches it just in time before it does, remembering the rule. He folds his knees to his chest and puts the flag between them, and reads on. 

_January 7th, 2013._

_Dearest Derek,  
Remember how I said things were boring? I'm so, so sorry i said that, okay? I didn't mean it. God, I didn't mean it. _

_I'm still having nightmares from what happened. My scar hasn't even healed yet._

_I miss you._

_Stiles x_

What? What?! Derek flips through the pages after that so quickly they almost tear, but he can't find anything that references what happened. His eyes scan the words so quickly they meld together, a thousand different stories all being told at once, _all in his voice_ \- 

_February 14, 2013._

_Derek,  
It's valentines day and i feel alone. All of the guys-even Allison has Lydia, for gods sake-have someone to write love letters to, but I don't. Well, I do, but if things go correctly you'll never read this anyway, because I'll be blabbering it to you in person. But in case something fucks up and I don't make it out of my own personal desert hell, here it goes: _

_Derek, i don't know how to tell you this. I'm sitting on my bunk scribbling in this book again and I don't know how to put into words all the shit we've been through together and how somehow, someway, I came out of it in love with your stupid smile and your eyes and you._

_Yeah, you can be a jerk. A lot of the time, actually, you are a super jerk. But sometimes, if I'm lucky, I get to know things like the fact that you really soo are a cuddler and you like to read Scott F. Fitzgerald when you're sad (or it's raining) and you like your coffee black, no sugar added. I know things like how the tri-something-or-other tattoo on your back feels beneath my fingertips and i know what it feels like to wear your favorite flannel shirt on pack meeting days even if it makes Erica snicker (say hi to her, by the way.) some things, sad ones, like the photos you have of Cora and Talia and Peter are stuck in my brain, along with the memory of your face, and your laugh. It sounds so cheesy, but one of the things that scares me the most (this is coming from a soldier! p.s. isn't that strange? I'm a soldier now. I have a fancy uniform and everything.) is forgetting your laugh. I replay it over and over to myself when I can't sleep (so, like always) and i always wake up with it echoing in my mind. I don't want to forget that, Derek. I don't want to forget you. I draw you in the margins in here, I draw your jawline and your eyes (and on bad nights, red eyes and sharp claws and long teeth) and i try so hard to remember, and more often then not i wake up calling your name. Ha. Isn't that funny. It took me signing up for the fucking army to realize that I love you._

_Wow. I said it. It feels nice. I want to say that again and again and again-i want to form the words with my lips, say it to you a million times until you punch me and then id say it again. God. I want to go home, I want to go home_

Derek is crying when he gets to the end. Tears are dripping down his cheeks so fast and sliding over his lips, the salt making them tingle. There's a inhuman sound coming out of his mouth, pain and despair and hurt and he can't stop, his entire form shaking with each sob that comes out of his chest. He's dimly aware of himself howling, a sound that is completely feral and wolf and it means one thing- _pain. _The raw burning in his throat that the howling produces makes him feel fractionally better, but makes him feel like he should do it again. And so he does. He screams, cries, howls at the ceiling until his throat feels like it's on fire and then more, and after he's so exhausted he can't even bring himself to read; falling into a fitful sleep swathed in the flag with the book clasped against his chest.__

__~_ _

__He wakes a few hours later with his face stuck to the wall, eyes crusted and swollen from crying so much. The dull throbbing in his throat makes him want to start again, but he swallows hard and moves onto the next entry, desperate to find out what happens next._ _

___February 22nd, 2013._ _ _

___Things are bad, Derek. Really bad. You know Lydia, right? Lyds? Allison's girlfriend?_ _ _

___She died today. In my arms. I held her as she took her last breath, the billet in her chest leaking blood all over her usually pristine uniform and all over me. It was a freak shot. There was nothing we could do. It slipped right in between the Kevlar._ _ _

___Everyone's torn up about it. The leaders won't even talk. And Allison? Allison won't speak a word to anyone, won't eat or even move. She's in the bunk above mine-pretty much the only way i know she's still breathing._ _ _

___Lydia was so smart. So intelligent. So kind. She and Argent are-were-perfect together. Allison is cunning and ruthless and so was Lydia, but Lyds was also sweet and funny and brought Allison back onto the ground when no one else could._ _ _

___I stroked her longish red hair as i radioed the medics and to Allison, trying to get them there as soon as I could, but she was gone before they arrived anyway. And you know what she said, Der? She said: "Stiles, i love you. Keep her safe and keep you safe, okay?" And then some blood bubbled out of her pink lips and she made a gurgling sound i will never, EVER forget, and then she was gone, a peaceful smile on her already cooling face._ _ _

___God, Derek. I don't want to die, you know? I know that's so unbelievably selfish and i know none of these guys want to die either, but for real. I just want to go home. I'm only nineteen, man. And I know that this sounds like whining, and I know it makes me sound weak, but-i don't like the desert. I don't like the flash of gunfire and swallowing unhealthy amounts of sand and eating cereal for three meals a day. I don't know why I did this. I probably won't even make it home to tell you any of this stuff anyway._ _ _

___Love,  
Stiles x_ _ _

__And that's when Derek really loses it._ _


	2. choices and consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All magic has a price. In order to get something you desire, you must give something up in return._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No notes, just wow, 800+ views, 25+ kudos? Thank you all so, so much.

He can't even believe Stiles said that. It's like the kid was predicting his own fucking death, who does that? He's angry, now, but it doesn't make sense to him why. Essentially, he was the one to send Stiles off. He was the one who made the kid feel like he was weak, like he was useless, when the honest truth is that they would've died out there without him, Derek especially. Without him he would've rushed into fights, claws bared, but it was Stiles' hand on his shoulder that made him stop and think of the consequences every time. 

Derek needed to speak to him again. At least once. He didn't know if he could survive on just this, just an echo of his voice. He needs to see him. 

He picks up the phone and dials Deaton. 

~

"Of course I knew," says Deaton as he walks through the door, shaking off his rain soaked umbrella and splattering Derek with water in the process. "I'm very in tune with the Otherworld, Derek. In case you didn't know."

Derek fights the urge to slam his fist through a wall or throw a table, and carefully growls, "And you couldn't tell me? Any of us?"

"I didn't know until yesterday, when it happened," he explains softly, removing a jar of black dust and a McDonald's sack of good from his messenger bag. "I'm sorry. He is waiting for you, though."

 _Waiting for me? What?_

Either the confusion shows on his face or he said that out loud, because Deaton continues: "He's waiting in the Otherworld to speak with you. I think..." Derek notices a spike of nervousness in the air as he speaks again, "I think he wants to make a bargain with you." 

Arms crossed, Derek towers over the veterinarian as he makes a semi-large circle of mountain ash, using his finger to scrawl symbols at each of the cardinal directions. When he's finished about five minutes later, he shoves the hot paper bag toward Derek and gives him a glance. "Be careful," he says. "When you're ready, step inside the circle and offer the food. It'll make it easier for him to find you, though I doubt he's stopped watching you since yesterday." Before Derek knows it, the screen door is slamming for the second time that day and he is completely alone. 

The rain makes what should be a peaceful sound on the roof and the air is clogged by the scent of grease. Derek wonders how he's supposed to step over the ash barrier since they're made to keep wolves out, but he doesn't doubt Deaton (for once) and does it anyway. 

Immediately, the air feels different. Derek can feel the electric charge from the top of his head to the bottom of his toes, and it sets the wolf in him to growling, but he shoves it away. 

He swallows hard, staring at the empty space in front of him, and crouches down with the food in his hands. His hands are shaking as he turns the bag over and spills it's contents all over the floor, and what surprises him even more is that he's actually nervous. It's been almost a year since he'd seen the teenager and now he'd be in front of him again, at least in theory. 

Except, nothing happens. 

His eyes squeeze shut as he shouts mentally, _Stiles? Can you hear me?_

"Jesus, Derek. I know you're excited, but there's no need to be so loud." 

His eyes snap open and he almost topples over in shock at the voice, his eyes drinking in the sight in front of him. 

It's totally his luck that Stiles looks the same as the last night they were together-fancy blue dress shirt with a grey v-neck underneath, ratty blue jeans, and his favorite white Converse. 

His throat is suddenly dry as the desert and he can't think of one thing to say. He can't seem to stop staring, either. _Brilliant job, Derek._ he scoffs to himself, and gathers up the strength to look into Stiles' eyes as he stands. The whole projection of him, his whole spirit or whatever it's called, is wavering slightly, going in and out like a bad tv signal; but his eyes shine brightly. In them he can see deep sorrow and loss, but somewhere in there is a little spark of happiness, too. Derek's kicking a hamburger out of his way and practically tripping over a carton of fries as he unconsciously steps closer, hand raised. 

"No privileges like that yet, buddy," says Stiles, crossing his arms and glaring at Derek. "Seriously, though? Big bad alpha brain and you can't say anything to me? Interdemensional travel is not very easy, and neither is keeping up this glamour-"

"Then drop it," Derek growls, lowering his hand in embarrassment. Stiles stares at him cooly as he does. 

"You're not prepared," he says simply. "Believe me, Mr. Superwolf. You're not. And I don't need you going all Big Red Eyes right now." 

Derek clenches and unclenches his fists in frustration, wishing he knew what to say. (When the truth is, he just doesn't want to say something stupid. So, he says nothing at all and avoids that problem.) 

Stiles takes a step closer to Derek so they're only inches away from each other, and that's when it dawns on him to wonder just why Stiles' is hiding what he looks like. 

_Oh. Injury. Whatever way he... Died, it must've been an ugly one._

That thought makes him mentally scream at himself again, because duh. War is ugly. What was he expecting, a neat little death with a bow on top?

Stiles cocks his head and snaps once, startling Derek. "Yeah, hi. Argue with yourself later, I'm still here."

"I'm sorry," he croaks, staring down at the floor because it's a weighted phrase and he can't own up to it. _Coward._

Stiles shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in little spikes. "I can come back," he says, and Derek doesn't even try to pretend that his heart doesn't do a little somersault at that. "But there's a catch." Stiles swallows hard, and among all the other scents radiating off of him, suddenly a bit of shame appears as well. 

"I can come back. But I won't have any memories of you. Or this. And I miss out on Valhalla." 

Two things flash through Derek's mind, whether he likes it or not:  
One: "wow, that's awesome, I get a chance not to fuck things up this time," and,  
Two: "holy shit, all the stuff we've been through together (and the feelings I thought we developed) would be gone." 

"Pick your jaw up off the floor and say something. I have to go soon," Stiles snaps, and Derek can already see the way the war and the time between them has effected the boy. 

"Yes," Derek says without a second thought, and shock registers on Stiles' face, if only briefly. "I-I can't do this without you."

"You managed for quite a while without dying of starvation or some gory supernatural death," Stiles mutters, scuffing his foot against the floor, but at least he's smiling slightly. He looks up and meets eyes with Derek for the first time, and his gaze is unwavering. "Are you sure?" 

Derek nods, swallowing past the lump in his throat to say, "Yes. Please." 

Stiles turns and disappears with one blink of an eye, and Derek isn't sure exactly what just happened, but he's pretty sure he's completely and totally fucked. 

~

'You're going to need Deaton,' says a voice in his mind that is unmistakably Stiles'. 'It's gonna take me a night to recover my strength. Be in the clearing at 9 tomorrow. Being the pack.'

Then things are silent, and Derek drops to his knees with his head buried in his hands. What has he done? He's created a monster. He's taken away Paradise from the only person he knows completely deserves it, all because he's stupidly selfish and too attached and- 

He remembers something very important he learned from a childhood of watching scary moves on the couch with Cora-isn't it true that when people 'come back from the dead' they come back sustaining the injuries that killed them in the first place?

Trying to ignore the growing dread in his stomach, Derek gets up and retrieves the journal from where it sits on the counter. He flips to the last page, where there's something scrawled in loopy, girlish handwriting. 

_Dear Derek,  
I felt like I should write this in here before I send it with my teammates to give this to you in Beacon Hills, otherwise you might never find out. The Marines have a way of keeping secret things secret for a long, long while. _

_It was our first super large classifed mission after Lydia had passed and the whole crew was edgy and wound up tight, myself especially, but Stiles kept cracking stupid jokes and being so cheerful that eventually someone smiled, then another, and another. He just had that thing about him, I'm sure you know. He kept us on our toes and made sure we all trusted each other, always._

_Anyway, the situation here was pretty damn bad. A bunch of hostiles-dealers, in lots of things you probably don't want to know about-were about to move a large shipment of, well, people, out of the country. The command was simple-kill the head honcho, get out and come back for the goods later._

_Someone was careless and allowed themselves to be seen. They were shot and killed. Shortly after that, we radioed them (the backup team, that is) that the mission had been compromised and the team was moving out. I don't remember what happened exactly, but one of the militants caught me completely off guard and snatched me, holding a gun to Stiles' head (I didn't even know he was there, honestly) and saying in Pakistani if I didn't go with him he would shoot Stiles._

_I don't know what you know about the military, Derek, but they teach us here to never, ever leave someone behind. And so I didn't._

_Stiles protested, though, insisting they let me go and take him instead. He promised them whatever they wanted in return for my safety._

_They shot him right in the kneecap as a punishment, tranqed me, and threw both of us in a cell for god knows how long. I'll spare you the bloody details, but know this-he lost that leg and ultimately died for me. He died a hero, Derek. Be at peace with that._

_You can contact me here if you wish: 481-406-6172._

_Cap. Allison Argent, U.S. Marine Corps._

Stiles-leg- _oh god, what had he done? ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would anyone be interested in me writing and publishing a deleted scene of what happened when Allison and Stiles were detained? Comment if that sounds interesting to you guys, and if you liked this chapter. Sorry if this seems rushed, by the way.


	3. letters

x  
Derek isn't sure what he should do, really. They don't teach you this in life skills classes, at least not in the traditional ones. 

But he does have morals (even if they're a little hidden) and now is the time to dust them off and use them. 

"Hello?" 

It's a little bit strange hearing Scott's voice, even if it is through the crappy speakers of his mostly busted phone. Without anything trying to kill them in the past few months, it's been basically unnecessary to speak to him, and now here he is. 

"Scott, it's Derek," he says lowly into the phone, trying not to growl. "I need you to cancel whatever plans you have for tomorrow and bring your mom out to the woods at nine. The clearing. No excuses." 

There's a shuffling at the other end of the line, and Scott says, "Dude, school starts in like four days! I've got shit to do!" 

"I don't _care_ about the summer homework you didn't do, Scott," Derek responds, abandoning all attempts to play nice alpha and resorting to plain old growling. "This is important. Be there." And then he lets the line go dead. 

Nobody's ever complimented him on his people skills, anyway. Why start improving now?

Next on the list is Erica, who's programmed into his phone only because Stiles insisted, and it's the one thing that's saved his ass more then the human. (Erica is really, really good with a knife. Like, Katniss in the woods good.) 

Erica doesn't sound surprised to hear from him. In fact, she sounds more 'ready to jump into battle' then 'jesus fuck Derek, why are you being an antisocial shit?' (Which she has said repeatedly, to the delight of Isaac and Stiles. _Teenagers._ ) 

"But why didn't you just tell Boyd to take me?" she asks curiously, just as he's about to hang up (politely this time, he likes Erica for whatever godforsaken reason.) 

Derek leans against the counter and absentmindedly flips through the book, thinking. "Boyd isn't your keeper," he finally says, and he can practically hear he smiling through the phone. 

"I'll see you tomorrow, Derek." 

As soon as the dial time buzzes in his ear, he breathes out a sigh of relief. Two down, many more to go. 

~ 

The other betas (and several other humans) go pretty smoothly-besides Isaac's not-so-funny remark about more ritual sacrifices in the woods, but whatever-each one of them agreeing to be in attendance tomorrow. It's actually kind of sad how all of them just agree to this shit now, all these secret meetings and codes and since when did their life turn into a teenage supernatural drama novel, anyway? 

Derek arches his back slowly, hearing the vertebrae in his spine pop quietly as he dials the last number in his phone. 

The Sheriff's number was put there by Stiles as well. He programmed it in without saying, and when Derek found it he had no need to say anything about it. If Stiles wanted his dad's number in his phone, cool. It didn't matter. 

But now, as he listened to the phone ring and ring and ring, he wasn't sure this was going to he exactly easy. 

"Hello?" The sheriff's voice, definitely slurred. 

Yeah. Not easy at all. 

"Sheriff Stilinski? This is Derek Hale," he splutters all in one breath, not coming off very cool and collected like he'd hoped. 

"Hale? As in, _Derek Hale?_ Did your psychotic girlfriend burn down your house again?"

Okay. That one stings. But Derek tells himself he doesn't mean it, and continues on. 

"Sir, I need a favor," he says, and the man cuts him off with a too-dramatic cackle. 

"Cut to the point, Hale. Skip the fancy names, would ya?" 

Pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, Derek spits through clenched teeth: "Go into the woods by my house at 9 tomorrow. It's about your son." 

And then, because he's a coward that literally cannot talk to anyone, he hangs up without letting the Sheriff respond. 

At least that's over. Now the hard(er) part. 

Derek shuffles up to his room, or at least the charred wreck of one that he's claimed as his own. In reality, it was Laura's, but he sleeps in there because he can still smell her smoke and dried leaves scent if he really tries. 

Running a hand through his thick hair, he takes a seat at the dusty desk he hauled into the corner of the room and clicks on the reading light. He pulls out a notebook, mostly filled with doodles of Stiles and sometimes the other wolves (so Derek likes to draw, it's not his fault he's got a lot of free time) and a pen, clenching it in between his fingers so tightly he's sure it's going to break. 

The blank lines taunt him, and he's not sure what to write. There's a million different things he wants to say to Stiles, but they don't have time for a million, and he's gotta make it count. He thinks about all the time they've shared, the countless drops of blood splattered on their complicated history, and even though it plays like a movie in his mind, the words don't come. 

Well, they're there, but whatever he marks down never seems good enough, and he erases it in a flurry of pink dust. After about an hour or so of writing and erasing, he's about ready to fling the book out the window, but something stops him. He pictures the spirit of Stiles peering over his shoulder as he writes (seriously, he wouldn't doubt it if he was there right now) and that makes things a little bit easier. Eventually the words come easier, he just writes all of the things that happened to them and how they made him feel. 

The last paragraph-and the most important, in his mind-is the most difficult to write, but also his favorite. 

_Stiles, it's me. I'm not going to sit here and pretend this is easy to write. I can barely express my feelings to people in conversation, how am I supposed to write a letter to my dead (boyfriend, plus one, whatever) and explain two years of a relationship, plus explain all of my mistakes?_

_Here's what I've figured out, after a good hour and a tree worth of crumpled paper-I can't._

_I can't apologize for all the shit I've done, Stiles, because it isn't worth it. Honestly, I'm ready to just give up the regret and move on. I want you to be peaceful-and this isn't easy, trust me-and for that to happen, that means no strings attached. I love you, Stiles. I always have. I just couldn't admit it to myself, and I'm sorry I couldn't tell you earlier. I'm sorry I couldn't be the other half you deserved, it's just not me. I'm not made to be like Scott, the Best Boyfriend Ever!, I'm just supposed to be Derek. And that means mixed signals and glares, not romantic poetry (that one time doesn't count. Don't bring it up.) and cutesy dates. Me means blood and bruises and not a whole lot of PDA, and none of the attention you deserve._

_I wish, though, I would've had time to change and be those things.  
Time isn't on our side and I'm sorry. I only hope that letting you go can be the biggest proof I have that I sincerely do love you, always have and always will. _

_Goodbye, Stiles. I'll see you soon._

_Actual love,  
Derek x_

Now, all he can do is wait.

~

The next night he gets to the woods around eight, giving him enough time to light a fairly large bonfire and think a little bit, but not enough time for him to worry like he wants to. 

An owl hoots somewhere in the trees, and the fire crackles, but otherwise it's just him and the twilight. He leans up against a pine tree and burrows a little deeper into his sweatshirt, trying not to bite at his fingernails. 

_If you do that, then we can never go get manicures,_ Stiles said.

"You're here early," Derek says, snapping out of his thoughts, trying not to act as flustered as he seems. 

Stiles, who's dressed in full Marines dress blues, smirks at him from a few feet away. "I was guessing you might want to be alone. The pack isn't exactly privacy friendly." 

Derek can barely hear his sarcastic banter because _holy shit, his face looks like he was in a MMA fight and his leg-_

Stiles swallows hard, looking down at his bloody uniform. "I should've kept the glamour," he says a bit hoarsely, not looking up. 

"No," Derek answers, looking back up at his face. "Stiles, I'm so sorry-" and then the kid is looking up at him with a _quivering lip and teary eyes, and oh god, how is he gonna do this?_

"Come here," is all he can bring himself to say, his throat thick. 

Stiles almost floats over the ground, the flickering flames behind them reflecting in his form, making him look like a soldier from hell. Derek almost falls flat on his back when the kid hits his chest, not expecting him to be solid-and actually kind of warm, but he might be imagining things. 

He's got his nose stuck in Stiles' hair and his hands are clutching at his shirt so tightly, and the material feels foreign against his hands, so used to cotton t-shirts or nothing at all. He doesn't forget to notice how handsome the teenager looks in his uniform, but doesn't say anything about it, either. 

"I'm sorry," he gasps, because they're both crying and Stiles is pressed against him so tightly the bark of the tree is cutting into his back. "I'm sorry I was stupid and didn't appreciate you-and-and didn't take you out on movie dates and-"

"If you say you're sorry again, you're going to end up in Valhalla with me," Stiles mumbles quite seriously against his neck, and Derek laughs for the first time in a long, long while. 

"This is for you," Derek says quickly before he forgets, slipping the notebook paper into the front pocket of Stiles' jeans, which would've probably been a lot more interesting had someone not cleared their throat behind them. 

"Hey, lovebirds," says none other then Erica, her toothy grin practically gleaming in the dim light. "I hate to interrupt the moment, but the pack is less then a minute away. And I'm pretty sure you'd like to be fully clothed for that- _no comment from you, Stiles._

Stiles is grinning like no tomorrow even though Derek leaped a foot away from him at the sound of her voice, bright red. "You were always so jealous of us, sweet thing," he purrs, blowing her a kiss, and Derek's mind practically explodes when she winks back at him. 

"Oh, don't get your panties in a twist, Derek," she says, rolling her big gold eyes. "He's only ever had eyes for you, so shut up." 

Derek would like to point out that he hasn't said a word, but he scarcely doubts anyone would care, and Scott's truck just pulled up, so it doesn't matter anyway. 

Scott puts the truck in park and jumps out, scanning the perimeter quickly. His mouth drops open in shock and it doesn't take long for him to drop his backpack and lope over to Stiles, who smashes him in the biggest bro hug Derek's ever seen. 

"Bro," Scott mumbles against his best friends shoulder. "Military? And-and..." He takes another glance up and down at Stiles, who flashes him a small grimace. "I'm not totally here right now," he jokes halfheartedly, and Scott's demeanor deflates instantly. 

"Military," he repeats. "Magic, then. Who did this?" His eyes sweep over to Derek's, who glares defensively at him. "Would you have rather never gotten a chance to say goodbye?" 

The look on Scott's face is enough of an answer. 

Soon Isaac arrives, and he's too shocked to speak. Derek isn't surprised at that. He had a hard enough time dealing with becoming a werewolf, and now he was tossing spirits at him. 

Danny and Boyd were carpooling, staring at Stiles in quiet awe but remaining silent as well. Now they waited only for the Sheriff and Melissa, who were apparently driving together. 

"Did he sound okay, Derek, when you called?" Stiles asks nervously, and Derek is really glad Stiles doesn't have werewolf senses to tell when he's lying. 

"Yeah, just a bit surprised," he lied, ignoring the golden eyes all glaring at him. "I mean, he was a bit upset, but-"

The police cruiser pulls up to the bonfire, and a eerie hush settles over the group. A twig snaps loudly when the sheriff gets out of the car, making them all jump. 

"Hale," he rasps, the smell of Jack Daniels on his breath so strong it practically chokes him. "This better be damn good." 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is encouraged.

**Author's Note:**

> This will have a second chapter! If you have absolutely any suggestions, go right ahead and comment. Otherwise, I'd really love to hear some feedback on this fic, because I'm so in love with it. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed it too.


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